Girl in a Box by Sujata Massey Page A

photograph had joined the few neat supplies on the shelf over the computer terminal.
    The color photo showed a close-up of a couple on a sailboat—a laughing couple, a young man hugging a beautiful girl wearing a slightly outdated neoprene bikini. The man was Michael, looking a little bit younger, his hair as close-cropped as ever, but dark brown, without any silver. The woman was a blond—a stunning, long-haired model type in her late twenties, with high cheekbones and emerald-green eyes. She wasn’t posing for the camera, but had tilted her face up to Michael and was showing him an expression of outright adoration.
    The picture made sense, I thought grimly as I turned away. He was so worried about my invitation the night before that he’d brought in a photograph of a sexy girlfriend as ammunition.
    â€œWhat kind of picture is that?” Mrs. Taki clucked disapprovingly when she arrived a few hours later, bearing a cardboard box with Styrofoam cups of green tea from a restaurant around the corner.
    â€œOh, thank you, but you shouldn’t have. I could have brewed green tea here for you, Taki-san!” The truth was that I had the real, leaf form of green tea, and it was better.
    â€œNever mind. Where is Michael? What does he say about this picture?” Taki-san drew closer, her eyes opening in wonder.
    â€œHe’s at the Pentagon this morning.” The lie came easily to me; it wasn’t as if Michael had said I couldn’t tell Mrs. Taki that he was going out to CIA headquarters, but I’d decided not to let her know, to further the idea that absolutely nothing was wrong at the office. “I haven’t had a chance to ask him about the picture, but I’m sure it’s a girlfriend. I’m surprised you didn’t know—you’ve worked together for years, right?”
    â€œHe never mentioned any girl at any time,” Mrs. Taki said, turning on me now, with a frown. “That woman’s bikini is out of fashion. Rei-san, where’s your makeup?”
    I clapped my hands to my cheeks. “I didn’t think of putting it on. Actually, it doesn’t match my government ID photo, so I thought it would be better to avoid using it, just so the guard downstairs doesn’t become wary.”
    â€œYou should practice. You’ll be going there any day now, so that face must become second nature. I know. I was undercover myself many times.”
    â€œReally? Who as?”
    â€œA Chinese.” Mrs. Taki cleared her throat. “And as you mentioned, there is a new guard outside the office door who asked me for identification—me, when I’ve worked in this office for so many years! What is going on?”
    â€œApparently it’s a new security directive from our masters,” I said.
    â€œHomeland security.” Mrs. Taki shook her head. “It almost makes me want to return to my homeland.”
    â€œI’ve wondered about that,” I said. “It must have been pretty brave and unconventional for you, to leave Japan as a young girl for this kind of life.”
    â€œOh, well, I did it for love.”
    I was surprised—I’d thought Mrs. Taki would have said that she did it for adventure, or because she was sick of a sexist society and wanted to have a meaningful job.
    â€œHow’s your application?” Mrs. Taki changed the subject, as if sensing that I’d been surprised.
    â€œActually, I’ve been working pretty hard on it. Will you look at what I’ve drafted so far?”
    Mrs. Taki settled down at the conference table. At the end of her reading, she looked up at me gravely. Her verdict was: not modest enough. The job was for a salesgirl, not a CEO. I had not presented myself as the kind of person whose goal in life was to offer customer service at the greatest department store in Japan.
    â€œOkay,” I said, writing down the line that Mrs. Taki suggested I use for my statement of personality.